Barbara Phinney - Bound to the Warrior

Nay! That part of her life was over, she told herself sternly. Ganute was gone and her new husband had vowed not to touch her, a promise she meant for him to keep.

She had to remain strong and detached. Her husband did not need her—her people did. Dunmow lost too many men at Hastings, and when she’d surveyed the mourners the day she’d buried Ganute, far too many widows stared back at her, all needing strong leadership. And there were worries anew, with the uprisings to the north and Norman soldiers gathering in the town of Colchester ten leagues to their south.

“Let us pray such a high price shall never be demanded.”

Adrien’s words from last night rang unbidden through her head. She’d seen a heat in his gentle smile, like a fire whose coals looked deceptively cold but whose inner warmth could burn skin.

A flush rose in her, and she determinedly turned her thoughts away from the memory. The sun peeked over the ridge beyond to paint the battlement pink. Ediva could hear several roosters crowing in competition and a shepherd calling his sheep from their night pen to search out the tender grasses of early spring.

Another set of noises caught her attention. She leaned forward to peer down into the bailey but the thickness of the walls refused her curiosity.

She heard Geoffrey’s complaining voice, followed by Adrien’s sharp retort. Both voices rose like the mist on the distant hills.

Adrien sounded fully awake, unlike Geoffrey, whose sleepy petulance echoed in his tone. Adrien spoke of stakes, ropes and something she couldn’t catch.

Her husband’s voice rippled over her and her breath stalled in her throat. The wind rising did nothing to cleanse her of the warmth. Foolish, it was, to have a Norman’s voice command such a reaction from her. She was far from a slave to her body’s whims, having learned long ago to control herself. Even a shudder of revulsion could bring about a beating.

She heard a maid on the stairs. Mayhap the morning ablutions will set her mind on more important matters. Let Adrien wander around the bailey. ’Twould teach him real life, not the one of a nomadic soldier whose only task was to sit upon a high horse and direct soldiers.

She spent much of the next few days slipping out to visit the new mothers. Her only contact was with Margaret or her steward. Of that morning, Geoffrey would only say that Adrien had ordered a cleaning of the bailey and a meeting with the villagers.

When she’d asked about the coffers, Geoffrey said that after counting the coins within, Adrien had studied the ledgers but had removed nothing nor sent word to London. The only other act that had stood out in her steward’s mind was the fact that Adrien attended chapel each morning, something Ediva had long given up.

She had eyed Geoffrey for any hint that he might have joined his new lord in prayer, but the man gave nothing away and she refused to outright ask. With Geoffrey loyal to Ganute, and then to her, and with his dislike of Norman rule, she doubted the steward would switch allegiances, but rather do the minimum to placate his new lord. It wasn’t Geoffrey’s habit to go to the morning services because Ganute barely tolerated the chaplain in his keep, and Geoffrey believed he was better off favoring Ganute. Or mayhap the steward didn’t like being told what to do by the old priest.

The next Sabbath dawned much the same as the days before. Up early, and this time with a stool to help her, Ediva peered out over the parapet at the bailey below. Her brows lifted sharply at the sight below.

The bailey nearly sparkled with cleanliness and Ediva noted the extra freshness in the air. Young Rypan was dumping kitchen refuse into an enclosed pen instead of into the garden. Ediva hoped the soil in the garden would not lose its strength this summer.

“Do you approve, milady?”

She spun, wobbling on the stool. Adrien stood several feet away, having climbed the stairs on silent feet. He walked closer and peered down at the handiwork. “Be careful when you lean forward. You may fall, though I suppose the landing would be soft in the garden waste. I ordered all kitchen scraps to be put in there and not scattered.”

She stiffened. “My bailey was not filthy.”

Even as she said that, she knew what a long winter could do to a keep. But still, her servants were hardly lazy on that matter.

“Nay, this place is well-kept. But I want the kitchen and garden to remain clean. ’Twould do us little good if we became sick from all matter of rot scattered about.”

True enough. Regardless, she frowned. “How do you know of such things?”

“I have lived in camps with men and seen what makes even a strong man sick. In hot weather, ’tis worse. Do you not check a brook for dead animals before pulling water from it?”

“Aye. The midwife said a carcass fouls the water and makes one sick.”

“’Tis the same with all waste.” He paused, then with a frown, he added, “Ediva, I did not come up here to discuss the work I’d ordered. ’Tis the Sabbath, and you will come with me to worship.”

Ediva wanted to decline, but his tone made it clear ’twas not a question. Her appearance at the chapel on the Sabbath had been erratic, and when she did participate in the services, it was by rote. Why worship a God who had turned against her?

But her husband thought otherwise and expected her to kneel by his side in the chapel. She looked up into Adrien’s face, with its subtle challenge. And in that moment, she remembered Geoffrey’s report about Adrien and the coffers.

Oh, aye, she’d be wise to go through the act of worship again. King William would be looking for monies and taxes, and Adrien would make the decision as to what went to him. He would also decide who needed taxing. She needed to have Adrien, who the king seemed to like, on her side.

So she dipped her head in agreement, albeit reluctantly. “Allow me to change my tunic, my lord.”

She slipped past him and down to her solar. A few minutes later she found Adrien outside her door. He offered his arm as they climbed down the narrow stairs that led to the main corridor.

Many of the tenants and villagers had already arrived and stepped back to allow Adrien to lead Ediva into the chapel.

“G’morning, milord.”

“Morning, sir.”

“’Tis a fine day to worship the Lord, sir!”

The salutations given to Adrien from various tenants filled the quiet morning. Adrien answered each person, a smile here and there, a ruffling of some small child’s hair occasionally.

“’Twould seem you have impressed the villagers, Adrien,” she murmured with a sniff, feeling piqued that he’d managed to win over so many of her people so quickly. “The king would be proud of you, I’m sure.”

“’Twas not done for his benefit, Ediva. These people deserved to meet their new lord. There are many changes afoot, and they need to know who I am, first.”

“Aren’t you the good overlord, then?” she noted, her tone seasoned with sarcasm. “But a fine manner before plunder is still plunder nonetheless and these people can ne’er afford it.”

“I have seen your coinage. There is no reason to show yourself righteous when you have collected so much.”

She bristled all the way into the chapel. More than half the benches were filled, though the chaplain was nowhere to be seen. Geoffrey was already seated closer to the front than the maids and cook, along with his mother, the midwife. Everyone rose when she and Adrien entered.

“I noticed your pews are not sold,” Adrien said quietly.

“I did away with it. I see no reason to add to the church’s wealth by selling the benches on which people sit,” she hissed back. “Our chaplain speaks of poverty and yet charges for all manner of blessings. The grain in the tithe barn in Cogshale rots because there’s too much of it whilst my people go hungry. I refuse to sell parts of the church, as well.”